


The Song In Your Blood

by jane_potter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Clothed Sex, Drugged Sex, Episode: s04e14 Sex and Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Gunplay, M/M, Monster of the Week, Non Consensual, Rough Sex, Sirens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_potter/pseuds/jane_potter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s such a prime cut of meat, and-- well, Nick is as good a name as any, the siren supposes-- Nick’s glad to have run across a catch like this one. It’s always a risk, going after hunters, but it’s so much more satisfying to watch a trained professional make a kill, rather than some weedy suburbanite office worker. Like lions and gladiators. When killing is already in their nature, there’s no telling how much of the murder is the venom and how much is just them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Song In Your Blood

“Nick,” Dean says, trailing along after him down the hotel hall like a lost puppy, his eyes glowing in his pretty, pretty face.

 

He’s such a prime cut of meat, and—well, Nick is as good a name as any, the siren supposes—Nick’s glad to have run across a catch like this one. It’s always a risk, going after hunters, but it’s so much more satisfying to watch a trained professional make a kill, rather than some weedy suburbanite office worker. Like lions and gladiators. When killing is already in their nature, there’s no telling how much of the murder is the venom and how much is just _them_.

 

Nick grabs Dean by the collar, dragging him bodily into the hotel room and releasing him with a shove. Dean stumbles back, his face flushed and halfway giddy just from that.

 

“I think,” Nick says, shutting the door and putting his hands on his hips to push back the suit jacket and reveal his holstered gun, “that you should call me Agent Monroe.”

 

Dean swallows at the delicate emphasis on those last two words, not looking a hint put off by it. If anything, he looks even more turned on—of course he does, because Nick plucked that right out of Dean’s brain.

 

“Yeah?” Dean says, faux casually, hands swinging loosely at his sides. “Agent?”

 

Nick smiles and flicks back the safety strap on his holster. Dean’s eyes are riveted to the curl of his fingers around the moulded rubber grip, the slow slide of the black metal barrel from its holster. “Exactly,” Nick praises. “Now why don’t you get undressed, Dean.”

 

Drugged full of sweetness and venom, Dean scrambles to obey, hardly taking his eyes off the gun the entire time. Nick runs a thumb around the muzzle in calculatedly obscene circles, coolly watching Dean watch him. The hunter doesn’t even need to be told to get on the bed; he just goes, sitting down and scooching backwards on it. Nick wants to laugh at the curiously shy way Dean presses his thighs together and keeps them drawn up, hiding his cock against his belly.

 

“That’s right,” Nick says, strolling over. He’s more than half hard in his slacks, and the sensation of it is strange; he’s almost forgotten what it’s like to have a cock instead of a wet, needy cunt. “You know how I’m going to give it to you, Dean. Just the way you want it most.”

 

Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs. “I thought you were gonna be my brother,” he says, a half-hearted protest at best, given the way he’s breathing, sharp and shallow.

 

It was unusual to find a fraternal bond _that_ strong and influential, so Nick had decided to play it that way at first, vaguely curious about how powerfully that bond ruled Dean’s life, that what he wanted most was a faithful brother rather than a girlfriend or wife—or, hell, just some beautiful, disposable bitch in a g-string. Even men who love their mothers most usually want a wife instead of another mother. But right now Nick’s in the mood for something more… traditional. He’s got a hell of a libido.

 

What can he say? He’s in the right line of work.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Nick tells him. “We’ll be together forever anyway.”

 

Just like that, Dean’s expression clears. He turns his face up for the caress Nick lays on his jaw—then, adjusting his actions to the feedback he’s getting from Dean’s mind, Nick turns the caress to a sharp push, forcing Dean down onto the mattress.

 

Flat on his back and totally exposed, Dean looks for all the world like a little boy, despite the obvious musculature of his taut, trained body. The venom gives his eyes an adoring glow, lends the vulnerable softness of complete and utter trust to his mouth.

 

Nick knocks Dean’s knees apart with the barrel of the gun, getting onto the bed between them. Now he can see that Dean’s already almost completely hard, his cock curving fat and dark towards his stomach. He smiles in approval, possessively thumbing the swell of Dean’s bottom lip. Christ, this is a pretty man. Nick should be more picky about his prey from now on.

 

Oh, god. Nick catches the latest wave of Dean’s thoughts and almost laughs. The things Dean wants Nick to do to him… who’d have guessed? Nick might have known subconsciously that Dean wanted him to take this form, look like this, have this job, but it’s only now that he’s actually getting the explicit how and why of the fantasy.

 

Kneeling over Dean, Nick pushes a knee higher up between Dean’s legs, pressing his balls tight against his scrotum. Dean gasps a little. Not as loud as the noise he makes when Nick touches the gun to Dean’s left nipple and traces a circle around it, though, not as loud as the moan when the cold metal scrapes against the hard little bud.

 

“Of course you realise that this is possibly the single _worst_ kink for someone in your profession to have,” Nick observes drily.

 

Dean grins lopsidedly. “I want what I want,” is all he says, then flinches a little as Nick’s gun moves on to his other nipple. “But _Christ_ is it hard to get,” he finishes, choke-voiced.

 

“You’ll get it,” Nick promises in a low voice. Obeying the whim of Dean’s subconscious, he shoves his knee just a _little_ harder against Dean’s balls, forcing a whimper out of Dean’s throat. “Open up.”

 

The gun’s blunt muzzle dents the soft flesh of Dean’s lower lip.

 

Dean freezes. “Uh,” he says, suddenly tense and reluctant, instinct screaming beneath the venom. The fog in his eyes flickers as he tries to fight Nick’s song. Alarmingly, every one of the hunter’s muscles is flexed and dangerously ready to strike out.

 

Nick swoops down and kisses Dean solidly, licking his way into Dean’s mouth within a matter of seconds and prying his teeth apart. Venom gushes from the glands, filling Dean’s mouth and sliding down his throat so easily. Dean relaxes again almost instantly, his eyes glazing over in ecstasy. He’s all the way under now, completely Nick’s, not just overly susceptible, the way that one sip from the flask had made him.

 

That’s good; that’s perfect. Nick doesn’t like his prey able to fight back. That’s not the kind of predator he is.

 

Pleased, Nick sits back and watches Dean lick his lips, compulsively searching out every last trace of venom. He’s amused to pick up from Dean’s thoughts that Dean perceives the venom to taste like rye whiskey, the exact brand Nick had learned to fill his flask with.

 

“Now,” Nick says gently, pressing the gun’s muzzle against Dean’s lips again, “why don’t you suck on it for a while, Dean.”

 

“Yessir,” Dean says hoarsely, his pupils blown wide and nearly delirious, and Nick nearly chokes with unexpected lust as Dean obediently takes the gun into his mouth.

 

Dean sucks it exactly like a cock, bobbing and sliding along the length of the muzzle as best he can while flat on his back. He winces whenever the sight scrapes the roof of his mouth, but it doesn’t seem to dampen his enthusiasm; if anything, Dean sucks harder when it hurts. To test the theory, Nick pushes the gun a little deeper into Dean’s mouth, bumping it against the back of his throat. Taken by surprise, Dean chokes—and _groans_ in desperation, his hips stuttering up momentarily. Delighted beyond reason ( _god_ he loves the filthy ones), Nick starts to fuck the gun in and out, not being gentle with it at all. Dean practically goes wild, moaning in the back of his throat, his lips stretched wide around the barrel of the gun.

 

“Look at you,” Nick murmurs, entranced. “I could kill you right now and you know it, but you don’t care. You’ll do anything for me.”

 

Dean makes a garbled sound around the gun. Nick pulls it out, a long, sticky string of saliva stretching between the barrel and Dean’s abused lips.

 

“What was that?”

 

“Love you,” Dean mumbles, his eyes shining and dazed.

 

Nick can’t help but preen. Charmed despite the fact that he’s heard those words so many times before, he pulls the stalk of hyacinth from inside his jacket and plucks off a bud, tucking it behind Dean’s ear. Manly, macho Dean doesn’t say a word of protest—on the contrary, he nearly glows with pride, because it’s a token of affection and it’s from Nick.

 

Nick catches a glimpse of his watch and frowns. “Sam’s going to be here soon.”

 

He realises his mistake when he sees the torn expression cross Dean’s face, but waits to see how Dean deals with the memory of his beloved brother. He needs to know how deep in the song Dean is.

 

“I don’t—we should go somewhere else. I don’t—” Dean’s mouth works for a moment as he struggles to process the war of desires going on in his head. “I don’t want him to interrupt.”

 

Slyly, Nick prods, “But he’s your brother, Dean.”

 

“No,” Dean growls, his expression transformed into hate in an instant. “I want you, not him. He—he lies to me, he keeps secrets—he’s fucking that demon skank _Ruby_ and blowing up shit with his mind and—and god knows what else, and—Nick, I want you. You’re my brother.”

 

His hands pull at Nick’s jacket, unconsciously tugging him closer. The show of Dean’s desperation to be loved is blatantly obvious, and Nick adores it.

 

“I’m your everything,” promises Nick, satisfied, moments before he sets the gun against the underside of Dean’s chin and pushes his head back. “Now spread.”

 

Dean’s eyes go wide and his pulse skyrockets, just like that. Nick can smell the sweat springing out on his skin, can practically taste the oxytocin rushing through Dean’s veins. Breathing harshly, Dean lifts his knees up and apart, reaches down and fumbles for a moment to spread his ass open. Despite his obvious arousal, a dull red flush burns across his cheeks and he rolls his head sideways against the blankets to hide it.

 

“You love it,” Nick accuses, smiling wickedly as he unspools the tangled threads of Dean’s desperate, scrambling thoughts. “You want it like this. You don’t want to be humiliated, but you want _somebody_ to humiliate you, to make you do things you can’t make yourself do on your own. That’s why you want me. Not because I’ve got a badge or a gun…”

 

He leans down to whisper in Dean’s ear, nudging the gun even harder against Dean’s jaw and forcing a choked whine out of Dean.

 

“Because I’ve got the power to _make_ you listen.”

 

Nick doesn’t do anything his victims don’t already want him to do. He does _exactly_ what they most want, and does it better than anyone else ever has or will, and for that, they love him.

 

“It’s okay,” Nick murmurs, delicately inhaling the scent of the hyacinth tucked behind Dean’s ear. “You don’t have to talk about it. I already know. I won’t even say anything else.”

 

He hears Dean’s sigh of relief.

 

Nick’s voice goes dark and savage. “I’ll just break you open and fuck you through the mattress.”

 

The feedback from Dean almost sends Nick sprawling. As it is, he sways in place, struggling to regain his balance and staring down at Dean in perplexed alarm. He’s never seen anything like that in a human’s mind. And he can’t understand the reaction— wasn’t that Dean’s _fantasy_ he’d been playing to?

 

What Nick picked up wasn’t so much a feeling or thought as a red, red _scream_ , a surge of hate and terror and lust and agony, of unspeakable things in the dark and lovingly polished scalpels and rusted metal spars afloat in a tide of hot-copper slick. He sees a mouth that’s nothing but bloody pink flesh and the sunken gaps of teeth pulled out by pliers, and a cock sliding past naked gums as soft as rotten fruit; he sees a body carved full of holes to accommodate the indiscriminate lust of demons too impatient to wait for one of only two holes already available.

 

“Shh,” Nick says, pressing two fingers over Dean’s pretty mouth and holding it shut, leaning in to gaze reassurance into Dean’s suddenly haunted eyes. “I won’t hurt you, Dean. You know that. This will be exactly what you want.”

 

Dean relaxes back into the warm lull of the dopamine, filling his needy little heart with Nick’s approval and love, and Nick sighs with enough relief to treat Dean to another kiss, a flick of his tongue and a tang of venom to wipe away the last shudders of that red memory. ( _Is_ it a memory? Nick doesn’t see how a human could really experience _that_ and survive.)

 

Nick grips Dean’s jaw harder, re-testing the basic scenario to make sure he’s still Dean’s perfect man, and feels the tell-tale subconscious arch of Dean’s back, the hunter’s muscles working powerful to strain up into Nick’s weight. For all that Dean pushes, he doesn’t want Nick off. No, he wants more than anything for Nick to stay _on_ , unmoveable and unflinching and strong enough for Dean to fight against until he has no more fight clawing at the insides of his ribs.

 

There. He’s slipped back over the line dividing desire from nightmare—and what a thin line it is. But Nick will do it; he’ll do anything for Dean, who loves him so very well. And he’ll say it again: it’s _well_ worth the danger to go after prey with violence already in their blood.

 

“Leave it on, Agent,” Dean rasps, as Nick loosens the knot of his tie.

 

Nick hooks a finger under the tie and pulls it over his head, holstering his gun with the other hand. It takes both hands to slip the loop of the tie around Dean’s head and push the knot into his mouth. Nick smiles approvingly as he tightens the tie again, the satin of it cutting at the corners of Dean’s lips.

 

“I’m sorry,” Nick says, “I thought I was in charge.”

 

Dean rolls his head against the mattress and groans. He’s gone back to holding his ass open even though the position is starting to make his arms shake, as loyally obedient as ever.

 

All it takes is for Nick to pop the button of his slacks and undo the zip, the metallic rasp of it sending a visible shiver across Dean’s belly. Dean’s desires called for Nick to be naked underneath, which is fairly unusual—but it makes sense, Nick supposes, since Dean doesn’t care about lingerie’s teasing eroticism. He wants the symbolic power of a uniform, made indecent by going without underwear. He thinks it’s dirty, the precious man.

 

Nick leans in close to Dean, nuzzling hard at his throat, his nose burning against Dean’s harsh stubble. The brush of his suit jacket over Dean’s chest makes Dean pant a little harder.

 

“I’m going to fuck you so hard,” Nick murmurs, careful this time to keep his voice away from anything suggesting pain. “You want it, Dean.” It’s not a question. Dean doesn’t want to be made to admit this out loud. “I’m going to make you love me.”

 

“Already love you,” Dean moans through the gag. Nick bites the edge of his jaw, pleased and pleasing in return.

 

His cock hangs hard and heavy from his open fly, already wet from the glands secreting lubrication along the length of it. Nick makes a nearly perfect human, but some things just can’t be hidden. Still, he’s not complaining, not when it means he gets to press up against Dean’s tight rim without any further ado. Beneath Nick, Dean fights for air, his breath hitching with desperate need.

 

Dean opens up slow and hot for him, a tight squeeze of muscle around Nick’s cock. The sinews cord in Dean’s neck as he takes it, takes it beautifully, digging his nails into his own skin as he keeps his ass open for Nick. This, Nick knows— _this_ is what ‘taking it like a man’ really looks like, nothing but brawn and tension and power even as he’s willingly laid out to be fucked, shameless and loving every second of it.

 

Growling beneath his breath, Nick grabs the muscle of Dean’s ass in his own hands and sheathes himself completely with a last jerk of his hips. Dean cries out, arching off the bed to meet the sharp points of Nick’s hipbones.

 

Ah, fuck, _yes_. Nick was _made_ for this.

 

(Nick almost laughs. Of _course_ he was.)

 

He hitches Dean’s knees over his shoulders, taking the strain off them. Dean groans when Nick leans farther in and pushes those knees almost to Dean’s chest, bending his prey in two with a dull red flare of pain that Dean luxuriates in.

 

Picking threads of this thought and that out of Dean’s head, Nick fucks him with hard, short strokes that make Dean’s cock slap against his stomach and force the breath from his lungs in sharp gasps. It can’t be comfortable, can’t be easy to breathe like that, but Dean practically _glows_ beneath the hungry approval in Nick’s eyes, feeling needed and loved. Venom and lack of oxygen combine to make Dean almost delirious in his pleasure.

 

Nick could kill him like this, and Dean would go begging for more. The thought makes Nick thrust even harder, biting into Dean’s shoulder to stifle the serpentine hiss that wants to rattle from behind his vocal cords.

 

Dean’s arms slide around Nick’s neck, fingers scraping bluntly at the nape of his neck to keep him close. His face flushed and sweaty, Dean is making a beautiful keening sound as the thickness of Nick’s cock fills him over and over again, rubbing in just the right way to make him shake. Nick has to pull the tie out of Dean’s mouth in order to better hear that sound.

 

Unable to help himself, Nick kisses the noise right out of Dean’s mouth, licks between his teeth and steals it for his own. After all, everything Dean does is for him. The glands beneath Nick’s tongue pulse, and venom flows into Dean’s mouth like ambrosia and poison, intoxicating.

 

When Nick draws back, Dean’s eyes are vacant, his pupils blown. His mouth hangs slack, shiny with spit and the nacreous sheen of venom, and a dribble of saliva runs down his chin. His arms have flopped down to the mattress, too weak and uncoordinated to hold anything. Nick has to be careful—too much more could be lethal—and yet he wants nothing more than to kiss Dean again and again and again.

 

Always again. That’s the kind of guy he is.

 

“Dean,” Nick whispers.

 

Beneath him, Dean writhes sluggishly, hitching his hips up to meet Nick’s thrusts. His thighs tremble against Nick’s shoulders. From the desperate, mindless whines that Dean keeps making, he’s beyond words, beyond thought—and by now he’s got to be feeling the burn of the lubrication in his ass, the hot, spreading pleasure of the substance Nick’s cock secretes. It soaks into Dean, making every thrust light up his nerves with a white-hot crackle of ecstasy. It wouldn’t matter if Nick had the lousiest technique ever (which he doesn’t, not after the practice he’s had): Nick is designed to be perfect at what he was made to do.

 

Well. Even human love’s just chemicals in the brain anyway, isn’t it?

 

“Dean,” Nick says again, curling the fingers of one hand into the short hairs at the back of Dean’s head, pulling at what little he can grasp. “You’re close, aren’t you? You are. You want to come.”

 

“Nn-huh,” Dean says weakly, his head lolling in Nick’s grasp like he can’t quite control his muscles. His whole body is shaking violently. “Plss. _Nick_.”

 

“You’ve got thirty seconds to come,” Nick tells him. “That’s an order, Dean.”

 

Dean’s eyes flicker with a spike of helpless arousal. Unable to touch his cock, Dean arches and surges his drugged body against Nick in a struggle to force himself over the edge. He wants so _badly_ to do as Nick tells him.

 

“And if you don’t,” Nick goes on, low and dark into Dean’s ear, “I’ll just have to stop, and take my gun, and fuck you with that until you—”

 

And Dean is screaming and coming, the noise raw from his stripped throat, his entire body shaking with the force of it. Nick sucks a sharp breath in delight as he feels a splatter of hot semen against his stomach. Rigid in the throes of it, Dean claws and flexes like an animal, his teeth bared and his head flung back to cord the sinews of his neck as he nearly _fights_ out the tide of his orgasm, wracked by spasms of pleasure so intense and unrelenting that it borders on the red edge of genuine agony.

 

The roar of feedback swallows Nick whole, as it always does. He comes back to himself several seconds later, panting for breath as his body throbs with the aftermath. With a grunt, he lets his weight down on top of Dean, smothering his face in the sweaty crook of Dean’s shoulder for a moment. Beneath him, Dean blows like a dray horse.

 

He’s surprised at just how difficult it is to extricate himself, to kneel up and withdraw. Tugging at his suit jacket to straighten it and still breathing heavily, Nick backs off the bed and stands, leaving Dean a filthy, splayed out mess. Sweat slicks Dean’s chest, venom and saliva shine on his abused, gasping mouth, and semen dribbles from the sloppy, clenching rim of his hole.

 

 _Christ_ , Nick thinks, feeling a flustered little thrill in his chest, the coy blush of being flattered by the man so beautifully laid out for him, by him. Dean’s going to spoil Nick for other prey.

 

“Nick?” rasps Dean, a tremulous thread of lost little boy in his voice. “Don’t go.”

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Nick assures him. “We’re going to be together forever.”

 

To his shock, Dean manages to marshal his trembling body enough to squirm across the bed towards Nick, grunting with effort. Delighted, Nick puts out a hand and pets Dean’s hair in affection. Dean closes his eyes and sighs.

 

“Why don’t you go and get cleaned up,” Nick suggests, as much as it pains him to lose such a sight. “Sam’s going to be here soon, and we need to get rid of him. Then we can be alone together again.”

 

And he thinks of the surface thoughts he’d gleaned from Sam, of knives and blood, of brute power and a passion for rough, all-consuming sex that outstrips even Dean’s, of a simmering temper and a hundred sullen suppressed aggravations just waiting to explode if only Nick asks it of him.

 

Nick’s looking forward to this.


End file.
